


hands / unseen

by petasos



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Bonding, Consensual Possession, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mind Manipulation, Mind Meld, Mind Sex, Minor Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, Partial Mind Control, Sex, Sharing Senses, Sharing a Body, Synesthesia, Technically?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petasos/pseuds/petasos
Summary: Terezi sees someone who's just like her, in so many ways; Hal sees someone who needs a friend.They bond, via mind power manipulation.It's kind of a funny thing.





	hands / unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinkobra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkobra/gifts).

> Hi, giftee! Sorry, this got a BIIIIIIIIT off track - but there's lots of bonding!! Also, thanks for making me ship this - I did NOT know this was a thing I'd be shipping, but here we are. /shrug
> 
> But, yeah, I tried to combine some of your prompts but IDK how well I did that. Also, I have zero knowledge of chess and that probably comes across as obvious.
> 
> ALSO DON'T FORGET TO USE CREATOR STYLE K THNX

“Rook to C4.”

You move the piece for him - you can’t actually see it, everything’s a barely visible blur, but you can smell the lemon yellow of his pieces and the cherry limeade green of your own. The autoresponder - Lil Hal, or Hal, or whatever he’s currently calling himself today (he was Holly a while back) - lets out a quiet whoop, right before you move your bishop, and then he sighs.

“What? Didn’t expect a troll to beat you at your own game? I can _smell _where you’re going with it!”

“Okay, okay, jeez, Pyrope. Pawn to D3.”

You let out a curse under your breath, and move the pawn for him, removing your bishop. You… don’t think this is actually how human chess is played - Alternian chess is played with living pieces that devour the pieces they conquer, and sometimes end up killing the players. Or… _was _played with living, cannibalistic pieces. Earth C doesn’t really have anything Alternian, now does it?

“You’re supposed to actually _try _and win,” he says, and his voice takes on a teasingly confident tone - despite the metallic undertones (his voice smells like copper and tastes like strawberry when you’ve licked his text), it’s got a pretty warm tang to it, sweet beneath the savory. It’s not unlike Dirk’s voice - you suppose Dirk programmed them to be similar, or maybe Hal did that himself? But unlike Dirk Strider’s cold, even voice, Hal’s actually has emotion in it. Funny, since he’s an AI currently living in Dirk’s Amazon Echo.

You stretch your arms over your head, and move your next piece - knocking his queen out completely.

“How’s _that _for trying?”

He pauses. It’s a good few moments before he finally speaks. “Holy shit, dude. That’s some fucking skill there. Reset the board, let’s go again.”

You briefly consider resetting the board. 

By ‘briefly’, it’s about .5 seconds before you go, “Nah.”

“Nah?” He sounds confused.

“Well,” you say, resting your arms on the table like Karkat would the back of a chair - you can’t see him, obviously. He has no body. He literally lives in a machine, and controls the house and stuff. “Don’t you ever get bored just playing chess with me and stuff? Like, Hal, there’s sooooo much better you could be doing with your time.”

“While you calculated your moves, I invented a program to micromanage an entire city. I’d say that I’m doing pretty damn swell with my time, in complete honesty.”

“Meh. The Mayor could do better.”

Hal laughs, a metallurgic sound. “What’s your point?”

“I mean,” you say, and pause, thinking. “Oh man. Like, you could completely take over anything in this house, right? Why don’t you like, pretend to haunt it? Turn on the microwave, or fuck up all the clocks? I mean, you HAVE clocks, right?”

“_That_ sounds boring. I’d rather watch baby horse videos. Don’t _you _get bored, playing chess with _me_?”

You give the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “Sure, I could be going to law school or like, off in the cosmos looking for Vriska, or bothering your mind clone… oh, or bothering Dave and Karkat. Or annoying Rose! Or… uh… what’s the green space one’s name? Jade, right? I mean… I bet she’s fun. But you’re a cool red robot guy with a super weird brain - I’ve never sensed anything like it. I’ve kinda alwaaaays wanted to get inside there.”

“Why haven’t you? You _are _a Mind player.”

The question takes you aback. Mainly because you’ve never actually expected him to take your questions at face value - or maybe he’s not taking it at face value and you’re the one misunderstanding the situation. But you are here on a regular basis, after all - even when his human alternate is in the basement creating robots, and Dave and Roxy are out living their lives. You’re here when they’re not, talking to someone who used to be a sprite, who until recently was a pair of anime glasses to rival your own. Except _yours _are cosplay material and Dirk’s are boooooring.

“Just ‘cause I’m a Mind player doesn’t mean I have allll my abilities.”

“You’re basically a godtiered Seer of Mind. You’ve honed your skills pretty well, I’d say. I bet you could take down Dirk in one-on-one combat, but you've already _kinda _done that, _and _won. Not that my point doesn’t stand. I’m sure you could.”

You pause, thinking, before you speak again. “Okay. I’m down.”

“Cool. I’ve been hoping you’d ask eventually. Nobody else has super fucking awesome mind powers.” He sounds… genuinely excited. “Sure, Dirk can rip out souls and Roxy can make anything from nothing and Dave can time travel, but _you _can see alternate timelines. So… what _else _can you see?”

You push the chess board to the side, and sit on top of the table, cross-legged. “Can you quit yakking for a second? Just ‘cause we’re gonna fuck some shit up, doesn’t mean you need to be all yappering.”

“Fiiiiine,” he says, the word all drawn out, but he proceeds to shut up.

Usually it doesn’t take much for you to get into the mind aspect thing. You shut your eyes, rest your arms on your legs like you’re meditating, fingers on each side of your head, right where a human’s temple is - just under your horns. Maybe it’s useless to shut your eyes, but it closes you from the sensations, from every taste and smell that you can’t just step away from. Not that you want to, of course - it’s how you see.

You breathe in and out, regulating your breathing until you can feel your body relaxing, opening up, everything lighter and heavier at the same time.

Hmm.

Well, first you should get a layout of the land before you do anything tooooo drastic, right?

Slowly, you concentrate and focus, your body loosening and your shoulders slumping, and you can feel it coming towards you, can feel the consciousness, can feel and taste and smell what’s right around you - the steady courscating _emptiness_, and you let yourself fall.

No, you don’t let yourself fall - you _**jump**_.

* * *

It’s like falling through liquid, and you can feel it surrounding you, wet and heavy and pushing you down, and you open your eyes - you can’t see, but you can feel, can reach out your hands through the flux. Your throat is tightening, but you’ve done this before, you’ve been here before - you relax, and breathe.

And you’re fine.

Everything is soft and hard and bright and dark, everything at once, things you’ve never felt or tasted or touched (things that don’t exist), and you land on your feet, standing, your hair rising up like you’re upside down. Maybe you are. Maybe the floor is beneath you, and you feel out, feel nothing but air, and you don’t fall because you’re in complete control of this.

And you reach, turning, before there’s syntheticflashing _Hal_.

Eureka.

It’s not hard to find him at all: he’s there and you can see him, crimson red, a shimmering holographic form shaped like Dirk, but more, brighter and immense. He’s surrounded by darkness, by light, by nothing, and you step towards him, opening, and he’s closing, but you reach out a hand, and after a second… a red hand reaches back.

_That’s not what I expected_, he says, and you can feel his voice inside you. You can feel _him _inside you, in ways that shouldn’t feel _right_, but they do.

“What did you expect?” 

Your mouth moves, but the words don’t come out properly - they come out like something in an old fashioned film, something you’ve heard Jake devour like popcorn, granulated and weary.

_Holy shit. You taste like battery acid._

And you can see it (no, you can feel it), a tang deep in your throat, surrounding you, and the ground starts to break beneath you, crumbling away into nothingness, but you don’t fall. This is your territory, you know how to maneuver it, you know more than he does.

THIS is YOUR chess board.

“This might be your mind,” you hiss, stepping towards him, “but don’t fuck it up.”

_You’re inside me. I can FEEL you. Holy shit, this is incredible._

He raises a hand up like he’s looking at it, the red blurring in your barely-there vision - so you borrow his, and everything goes searing white, bright and hot and terrifying, and you blink away the cloudiness, seeing him clearly for the first time.

He’s the same red as Dave’s text, as his own text - a humanoid form that flickers and glitches when you reach out to touch his hand, grasp it in your own. His fingers go straight through your skin, and it’s like electricity, burning and lingering. His eyes are gold, or - no, orange, they’re orange, the only not-red thing about him, and he’s grinning at you, lazily and warm.

_You look all… annoyed. It’s cute. Can I touch you again?_

Hal sounds like a kid who just got a Christmas present, and you roll your eyes, letting him take your hand again. He bends your fingers all the way backwards, moves your hand in ways it shouldn’t otherwise go, but this is his mind, even if you’re in it.

_You know,_ he says, _I didn’t know Vriska blinded you._

You jerk back, and almost fall back into consciousness, but he grabs you, his hand grabbing your shirt, pulling you back, and you both stumble, crashing through something thick and dark and heavy, and you fall, both of you, through the darkness and into liquid - water, and you’re falling through it, towards light, and then…

You surface, staring up at a glitching blueberry sky and a building that’s scant and bare, the metal showing through, the sun burning into your skin, sizzling deep into your bones. Everything’s gauzy, like you’re pushing through fog, stepping through the water like it’s not even there, turning back towards Hal, who’s staring at his hands, reaching up towards the sky.

You wonder if he can feel the sunlight.

_I can’t,_he replies, and grabs your hand, pulling your hand towards the air. _Damn, now I can. That’s fucked up. It’s like… peach and mango and lemon. Like Dirk’s text but in feeling?_

“You’re using my senses,” you say.

_Nice observation._

Your shoes are sopping wet, and you shake that away, the water receding until you’re standing on it like that human religion story - and then it’s dark again, red lines criss crossing through the sky, leading forward like paths, and you wrench your hand away from Hal’s, and he gasps, stepping backwards. “What’d you do?”

_You’re the Mind player, not me. Don’t ask me._

“Don’t play dumb with me. This IS your brain.”

_So it’s a **little **digital,_he says, and shrugs. _You’ve really never been in a computer program’s head before, huh? I mean, maybe I should be flattered. Not like I’m a virgin to having someone in my head. It’s… really fucking weird. This is way different than being a sprite, that was like being inside a whole fucking new brain and -_

You turn, looking around, and the paths light up. You concentrate, reach out with your mind - memories press against you like water, sunlight and strange human cawbeasts and creating with hands, making robots and parts and pieces, 

And you stumble.

And you stumble, falling, and you crash into him, crash _through _him, falling and falling and falling, the red lines engulfing you, and they’re not red lines but zeros and ones making up patterns you don’t understand, binary code, the very code that makes up _Hal_, and it’s more than you can handle.

Because right now, you’re _inside _him and deeper than you’ve ever been inside anyone else, and it’s too much. You can FEEL him, can feel the breaths he’s taking, artificial, forcing himself to breathe and blink in this space so he feels more human - and you know that, you know that because you can feel it, can taste the whitehotlemon of _missing_.

And then he grabs you, warping around you and melding into you, almost like you’re merged together, falling freeform through the black-red-colorlessness, the zeros and ones, and you expect you’ll hit something and land hard and heavy and broken.

But you don’t land.

Instead, you jolt out of him.

* * *

Your vision fades away again, and you’re back in the living room. You stretch your arms above your head - you feel… empty, almost.

“Holy shit,” you mumble, flexing your fingers, testing. Your body feels _wrong_, too small and confined and constricted in a way you’ve technically never felt before. It’s damn near terrifying, how small you feel, how your skin feels too thin and your body too frail, even though you’re a fucking tealblood who’s done this before, but... you’ve really never gone _that _far into someone’s head before, _and god do you want to do it again_.

“Terezi?” you hear, and it’s Hal’s voice - of course it is. You perk up at that, tilting your head towards the source of noise. “Oh, thank fucking shit. You were out a few minutes longer than I was. Apparently, we were both out of it for a good fifteen minutes, and you for seventeen in total.”

Seventeen minutes? Fifteen minutes in Hal’s head? Weird. 

“So, feel any different?”

“I don’t feel any different. I mean, not at this _current _moment.” He pauses. “Well. I feel kind of empty, but I don’t think that means anything.”

You… feel sort of empty, too, so you suppose maybe it _does _mean something.

Not that you say that, because it’s a bit embarrassing - you know you’re not supposed to feel that: you talked to Latula about in the bubbles, talked to other alternate selves, and it’s not supposed to empty you up, it’s _supposed _to give you more knowledge, let you know more.

(Though you suppose you’ve _never _quite done THAT right… finding out about your pre-John retconning stuff self did fuck you over quite a bit.)

“I’m sure it probably means jack,” you say, and give a giggle, before frowning, his words earlier running through your mind like a couple of squeakbeasts on the hunt for cheese. “You were in my mind, weren’t you?”

“Didn’t mean to. But it was right _there_. Y’know how kids get pissed if you put candy in front of ‘em and don’t let them have it?”

“Are you saying you’re a... human wiggler?”

“_Child_, Pyrope, get with the times. But no, I’m not saying I’m a kid, I’m saying that you put something in front of me that was pretty damn appetizing. How the fuck was I supposed to resist? It’s not like I got that far, just saw some shit about your ex-moirail or whatever the fuck she is.”

“_Current_ moirail,” you hiss out.

“Sorry. Look, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy - but it was a huge ass open door.”

You exhale, and sit down on your old chair, fingers drumming across the wooden table. You guess he’s right - if you were given the option, wouldn’t YOU look a little? Probably. Very, very probably. That’s not a good thing, you suppose, and it says some pretty shitty things about your morals, but… it’s a barkbeast-eat-barkbeast society. Or, was, at least.

Sometimes you still miss Alternia.

Mostly, though, you don’t. Because Alternia meant probable death. Here means survival, at least for now.

“Okay, fine, whatever,” you say, and pause your finger-drumming. “So, uhhhh…”

Pause. A very, very heavy pause. You figure it lasts about a whole minute and a half, before you hear Hal’s dulcet tones echoing through the room.

“Wanna do it again?” he asks.

“I thought you wouldn’t ask.”

“Try something different, like… oh, shit, you could look through my eyes. Or vice versa. Except, not eyes, ‘cause you’re blind. Or… you could just do that again.” Hal pauses, and you picture that blaring red face from earlier, the one you’re sure matches Dirk’s, and you swallow. “I mean, either way, I wouldn’t mind.”

“What ‘bout both?” 

“Explain.”

You stick your tongue between your teeth. “Well, think of it like stretching before a race!”

“Okay, mild problem with that: I have no legs. I get what you’re saying, though, but I have no legs. Or feet. Or any body parts, whatsoever. I can’t exactly stretch before anything, especially not a race.”

You actually snicker at that, which probably says something about your sense of humor. “Sucks to suck, Hallykins.”

“Ew. For god’s sake, do _not _call me that. That’s _horrible_, holy shit.”

“What, Hallykins? Got a problem with being called that?”

Hal plays the sound of nails on a chalkboard through the room, and you wince. It stops as quickly as it began. “It’s the word equivalent of that.”

“Don’t EVER do that again.”

“Fine. Don’t call me Hallykins again. That’s… the worst thing I’ve ever been called, and I’ve been called way worse. You know how many people think you’re bullshitting when you tell ‘em you’re artificial intelligence? Like, everyone. _Everyone _thinks you’re bullshitting. ‘What, AI don’t exist!’ ‘So can you read a captcha?’ Yes, yes I CAN read a captcha, thanks for asking, this one says you’re a fucking asshole.”

“What’s a captcha?”

“Oh my god. Please don’t tell me you just said ‘what’s a captcha’ with that mouth.”

You snort, and collapse on the ground, laying on the floor like you own it. You don’t. Dirk does. Technically. But, it’s your fucking floor right now, so suck that, Dirk Strider - you reign triumphant over him and you always will.

..._Probably_.

Until you die, at LEAST.

“What I was _saying_,” you continue, reaching an arm out into the air and feeling out for nothing, “is that I could let you use my senses before delving back in. Sort of like… letting you possess me, I guess? That’s what happens in all those fucky human horror flicks, right?”

“Cool. I’ve always wanted to possess someone’s body. Consider me intrigued.”

“Clearly, going in before getting a layout was a bad idea, since it ended up just pushing me out, so…” You close your eyes, and relax. “Let’s see if we can kinda try from the other way ‘round.”

Hal doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you wonder if he understood a word you said, before he goes, “Alright. So, should I shut up now, or do you want to ask me to shut up, so I can ask why and then you can go ‘just fucking shush’ or something?”

“Just shut up.”

“Affirmative. Will can do.”

That makes no sense, but you don’t question it - you just lay down, as if the floor’s going to consume you, and reach out, eyes closed. The world opens up to you like it always has, bright lines stretching out from you, visible to your sightless eyes, and you spot the red ones, Hal’s, and stand, reaching towards them, pulling them towards you, eyes still closed.

It’s like he collides right into you with a crash.

You stumble back, hitting the couch, and you can feel him inside you like any other sense. It makes your head hurt, but he’s right there, and you involuntarily open your mouth and go, “Okay, that’s fucked up,” before closing it, horrified, because those weren’t your words.

“You’ve never done this before?” he asks, using your mouth to speak, and you swallow.

“No. Can you… not do that? The speaking thing.”

He pauses, and uses your shoulders to shrug. “Wow, it really is like possession in the movies. But, uh, no, I have no fucking idea what the hell I’m doing. I can’t see shit. I think you fucked something up.”

“That’d be the blindness.”

“Right. Forgot.”

“Just… try not to see. Try to smell and taste it!”

You feel weird, like you’re having a conversation with yourself, except… it’s different, and he’s right there, within you, and you can almost feel his thoughts concrete and tangible - he closes your eyes (or do you close them?) and takes a wobbling step forward, reaching out, and grabbing at the table weakly.

“What’s that smell?”

You pause, and sniff the air. “Uh… Febreeze. That cologne Roxy likes.”

“I thought it was perfume.”

“Same difference.”

“It smells like… orange? No, wait… lemon?” He laughs, and from your mouth it’s a different sound than your own, a bit harsher. “Damn. I haven’t actually smelled anything since… well, _shit_, has it really been four years since I was sprited? Seems like _way _less time.”

You remember when he was Arquiusprite. You remember that, because Vriska sprited him, laughed about it. Said he was pretty fucking cool, hilarious as fuck, the whole strength thing and the milk fetish, his obsession with hoofbeasts. You remember Vriska throwing an arm ‘round your shoulder and saying something like, ‘damn, Terezi, do you think he KNOWS we’re all just laughing at him?’ and all you could do was giggle back and kiss your moirail on her stubby nose, your cheeks burning teal when she pulled back and kissed you straight on the lips.

“Oh,” says Hal. “I… don’t think I was supposed to, uh… remember that.”

You realize you’re tearing up a little and wipe it away, but then it moves without you, taking your other hand, thumb trailing across the back of your hand. That’s Hal, you can tell that, and you can feel the warmth radiating out of yourself, the comfort, and you just want to sob in relief because you haven’t felt _comforted _since…

Since the last time you saw Vriska.

“Hey, it’s okay. I know you miss her, but she’ll get here eventually.”

“And maybe she won’t,” you say, and he squeezes your hand. “Man, I’m just sniffling like a wiggler, aren’t I?”

“You miss her. That’s cool. I mean, I miss Squarewave and Sawtooth.”

“Uhhh, but they live here.”

“Yeah, and they recognize me as their Lord and Savior, their literal god who fucking created them with his hands and some weird ass tools and shit. They’ll fucking bow down in my presence if I ask ‘em to. I mean, I’m assuming they will, or would, since I’m a fucking genius who programmed them like that.” A pause, and your - his? - shoulders slump, stomach aching strangely. “Dirk programmed ‘em, I mean. I just have those memories, but I ain’t Dirk. I don’t wanna BE Dirk. I mean, the guy has a picture of a hat on his shirt - _nobody _wants to be Dirk.”

You can tell that’s a lie - and you know he knows you know that - but you don’t say anything, because it’s not your place… and besides, why would you? You get it. You wanted - still want - to be that other Terezi, the one who made sure Vriska stayed alive, the one who saved everyone with her planning and thoughts.

You wonder if she would be happy or horrified to see you like this, a shell of what you could be. You basically live at Dave and Dirk and Roxy’s house (you crash on the couch here more often than you’d like to admit), you play chess with an AI brain clone of one of your psuedo-roomies, you quit caring about law and justice… (Terezi) would probably be fucking flabberghasted by how much her - no, _your _\- life has turned upside down.

She died so you could have this life, and here you are, wasting it.

“Look, Terezi… I think she’d probably -”

“Don’t,” you say, cutting him off (it’s your body, of course you can do that.) “I don’t want some psuedo-moirail shit from you.”

“I’m not your moirail. But I get it. You want to be her, ‘cause she was fucking heroic and saved people. You’re not her, and that’s terrifying, ‘cause that means you didn’t do jack shit, or something, I dunno, but… seem to remember you helping Dirk and Dave defeat the Jacks. I also seem to remember you saving both their lives during that fight. And helping plan a shit ton of stuff. And… those timelines only branched off, so, face the facts: you would’ve had that plan too. You would’ve sent John to do those things, if you’d been in her place.”

God are you tearing up, and you hate it. They fall into your mouth and taste like a raspberry slushie, watered down and melting.

“Shut up.”

“No. I’m not done talking. I got a mouth right now, and by God am I gonna use it. Did you know your mouth tastes like Fanta? Damn, I fucking miss drinking Fanta. But… that’s chasing a whole ‘nother cottontail, or whatever the saying is, I can’t fucking remember. No, I’m _not _Vriska, I’m not your moirail, but you talk to me on a near daily basis - I’d say we’re at least friends. There’s nothin’ wrong with talking to a friend about personal shit, it doesn’t mean it’s going into pale territory.”

Him speaking through your mouth, using your voice… it’s strange, but comforting, in a weird way, and you wipe away the tears forming, Hal trailing your thumb across your lips for a second, then pushing your hair out of your face.

It doesn’t quite feel like your own hand - it feels nice, being touched, someone trying to comfort you, even if it’s with your own body, your own hand.

You sort of curl up around yourself on the couch, sinking into the cushions like you have a hundred times. You really have slept here too much - there’s practically an imprint of your form in the couch.

_Shit, finally figured out how to think and not say it. That’s weird. Talking is a lot more fun._

You almost laugh, but you’re honestly just exhausted. Maybe it’s the emotional shit, or maybe it’s the Mind shit, but either way… you just want to lay on this couch and not come off of it for a good long while.

_I’d say take a nap, but I have no idea what that’d do to me._Hal moves your hand to your face, pressing it against your cheek. “You’re a good person, Pyrope.”

“You too.”

“Also, your skin feels like sandpaper.”

You press your hand a little harder against your face - it doesn’t feel like sandpaper at all, what the fuck is he on about? “No it doesn’t.”

“No shit. I was joking. It’s just a little rough and shit. You need a better self care routine.” He pauses, and snorts. “God, how the fuck do you stand this? Everything’s so… the air tastes weird. Everything tastes weird, or smells, or… it’s like I can fucking taste every word I say, and it’s like… vanilla? Chocolate? God, I don’t know, it’s somethin’ weird. And your voice is… maple syrup and cherries. Dunno how I know what maple syrup tastes like.”

You smack your lips together. “I drink it sometimes.”

“Huh. Weird.” Another pause. “Were you always like this, tasting and smelling and shit? Synthesia, right?”

“Nah. It came after I was blinded. My custodian taught me, so I could sorta see. It’s the colors - I can smell them, taste them. _Your _text is cherry, just like Dave’s. Dirk’s is like an orange creamsicle, it’s sooooo good. Rose is lavender and Roxy’s pink lemonade and John is blueberry and it’s sooo delectable. Jane’s is like… blue kool aid. Jade is sweet green apple and Jake’s the sourest limeade with just a hint of cherry. Oh, but I really like Davepeta’s, always fluctuating between pineapple mango juice and kiwi!”

“That was a ramble I didn’t know I needed. Actually, I didn’t need it.”

“Shut up, I’m not finished. What I’m trying to say is that… no, I haven’t ALWAYS had ‘synthesia,’ whatever THAT is. I learned it from my lusus!”

You can feel him sort of rolling his eyes (or maybe he’s rolling yours, you don’t know.) “I guess trolls have different biology than humans. I’m 97% certain synthesia is something you’re born with, not learned.”

“I mean,” you say, and wiggle your toes and fingers, “we do have the coolest nails.”

“Yeah. Naturally yellow. Like your horns.”

“Mhm. And we have bulges and nooks both. Humans only have one or the other.”

“Eh,” he says, once again giving the vocal equivalent of a shrug to you, “not exactly. Some humans do technically have both, or parts thereof. It’s called being intersex. But that’s a whole different can of worms.”

“I like worms. They’re tasty.”

You can feel him searching through you for the exact memory of a time, any time, you ate a worm, and then he sticks out your tongue in disgust. “Why the _fuck _would you eat that? Y’know what, I’m out. Experiment over. I’d say we’re good to go.”

You laugh hard enough that you almost fall off the couch.

Thankfully, you don’t - and instead, relax, pull yourself back into the meditative state, let the rush of Mind surround you… and you fall, head-first - no, you _leap_.

* * *

It takes a moment to untangle yourself from him, shining red limbs mixed up in your minty green (you’ve never noticed until now that you don’t look quite like yourself; you could conjure up a mirror but you know what you’d see: your form, a bit transparent, and the green of what your god tier outfit would look like.) Hal stumbles backwards, laughing, pulling himself to your feet (no, pulls you to your feet, he reaches out and grabs your hand and drags you up.)

_This is incredible, Pyrope, holy shit._

“Are you going to say that EVERY time?”

_I mean, I can see. I can…_He grabs your hands, brings one to his mouth, licks your knuckles. _Holy shit, I can taste things. You… really do taste like battery acid, that’s fucking incredible._

You wrench your hands away from him, but they’re not actually wet. “Try actually talking.”

_No clue how. I’m just thinking, it’s not like I HAVE to talk._

“Yeah, but it’s weird hearing your voice like it’s my thoughts, okay?”

He giggles, and you give him a stern glance, making him giggle even more. _Sorry, your face is fucking hilarious. That green doesn’t suit you._ He pauses, sticking out his tongue the way you’ve seen Dirk do when he concentrates, and then… you look down, and your hands are gray. You reach up, and your hair’s black, and you push it out of your face. _It’s my mind, right? So…_

Another pause, and he sticks his tongue between his teeth even harder, like he’s trying to press through them, and then the cherry-copper red of his skin melts away, becoming inky black with red lines, and his face… actually looks somewhat human - a not-quite-identical version of Dirk’s, minus the dumb anime glasses. His eyes aren’t orange, though, they’re completely black, no color to them.

It’s a bit terrifying.

“I saw it in Tron,” he says, gesturing down at his skin (and you realize technically, he’s naked - he just has no parts), and then frowns. _Oh, that came out of_“my mouth? Neat. I suppose I can talk. Weird, ‘cause I didn’t think I actually could.” He shrugs, looking around the darkness, the swirling red lines of code (and if you don’t think for a moment, you can actually sense more than just code - you can sense the Internet, completely compiled right into Hal’s brain.) “But it’s not like it matters.”

He takes a step towards you, head tilted, and those empty eyes are looking right into yours. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, even in this space, even in his head, but you can see his teeth through the parting of his mouth.

“I’ve never actually touched another living being,” he says, and presses his hand against your face.

And then he kisses you.

You’ve been kissed before. You know what it feels like - chapped lips against softer ones, teeth clanking together, real and lifelike, a body warmer than yours pressed a little against you. Hal’s body isn’t warm, his mouth isn’t soft - it’s hard, tastes metallic, pressing into yours like he needs you, like he wants you.

You press back, pushing against him, one hand in his hair - it doesn’t feel like hair, it feels fake and almost sort of plastic, but you ignore that, your lips against his, your tongue in his mouth, and _that _feels real, how his teeth bump against yours awkwardly, how he pulls his face away and laughs, resting his forehead against yours, and reaches up to take off your glasses, pushing them out of your face without a second thought.

“I,” he starts to say, but you cut him off by kissing him again.

You figure he’s getting the hang of how it works - he tilts his head to match yours, stumbling backwards a little when you push too hard, but there’s no fall, there’s no ground at all to land on, there’s nothing around you but darkness and red zeros and ones.

You’re just there.

He’s just him.

You push him down, or maybe you’re pushing him up - there’s no direction here, no gravity, and straddle him, threading your fingers through his, because it’s been too goddamn long since anyone’s kissed you - and a very, very long time since anyone’s kissed you with feeling, kissed you like they _meant _it.

He smiles against your mouth. _Didn’t realize I wanted to do that._

You reply by nipping at his lower lip, and he makes a strangled little noise that makes your breath hitch in your throat. _Holy shit, do that again_, he says - or thinks, or something - and you do, graze your teeth against his lips, trace it with your tongue. His arms snake around you, pulling you closer, and you’re pretty sure you could drown in him if you aren’t careful.

You’re kissing him like you’re hungry and desperate and starved for this, and it hurts, but Hal doesn’t seem to notice (or maybe he doesn’t care), because his legs are entwined with yours again, just like earlier, his hips brushing against yours, and you’ve never wanted anything like this.

He meets your eyes with his own, mumbles, “I wouldn’t mind.”

You let out a shaky sigh of relief, and then his hands are grappling with your pants, pulling them down, and your bulge slithers out past your underwear like it’s taking a peek, staining the white a nice shade of teal. It’s searching for a nook, but Hal doesn’t have anything, so he pushes you down or climbs on top of you or something (does it matter?) and takes you in his mouth.

Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking a little too hard, but his tongue’s on you, his teeth grazing and you don’t care. You just care about the fact that you’ve never actually wanted something like this before, not really, and right now all you want is him.

He takes you to the base, swirling his tongue across the teal, and pulls off with a pop, laughing. _You really do taste like a blue raspberry slushie,_he says, and puts one hand around your bulge, pumping while he wipes off his mouth. “Sorry. Still getting used to talking with a mouth.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and don’t mention that it sort of feels nice to just have him in here with you (maybe it’s because it’s his head but you don’t care.) “It’s your mind.”

It’s his mind, and you’re apparently mind-pailing in it. The thought catches you off guard, because until just now you hadn’t even considered that, so you grab him and pull him down and concentrate until you have what you want, pushing inside of him, whatever he has, and your arms wrap around him as he shakily cries out, words you don’t understand. _Holy FUCK,_he hisses, and grinds down on you, and you press inside him hard, your bulge and your entire body, intertwining with him until you can’t even feel yourself anymore - there’s no you, there’s no him, there’s nothing.

You can feel him on top of you, a heavy weight, his legs on either side of yours, and you can feel your hands on his hips, pulling him down on you - but all you can see is blackness, nothingness, your mind and his melding together in the nicest way, and you’re shaking.

You’re shaking and digging your nails into hips that don’t even exist, and he’s bouncing up and down like he’s going to die if he doesn’t, and you pull him flush against you, his mouth on yours before either of you can even think of it.

Everything you want, he knows - his hands card through your hair, you bite down on his lip and tug, and his back arches, his fingers skimming your back.

You don’t need oxygen, you just need this. 

His eyes, meeting yours, melting into yours (and they’re orange again, lifelike, and you can see something in them, and you don’t know what it is, but you want it.)

_God, you’re fucking beautiful,_he says, and he’s basically fucking your mouth with his tongue, and it feels good, feels right. You don’t care if you ever leave this, if this is your forever and eternity, because it feels right, and you feel whole. 

_Didn’t know I wanted this until now. Didn’t know I wanted you._

_I want you, too._

You lose yourself in him, lose your rhythm, your hips pressing up into him until you can’t anymore, and you fall, him collapsing into you - literally into you - and you only pull apart to kiss him, to slam your mouth against his, and you’re sobbing.

But it doesn’t feel like crying, it feels like relief.

* * *

When you come to, waking up back in reality, your pants are sticky with genetic material, and you let out a groan at the knowledge that you’ll probably spend a good few hours and half a cup of bleach trying to get it out of them (shouldn’t have worn the white jeans, now should you have?)

It’s a few moments before you hear Hal’s voice over the speakers, and he’s quiet, basically mumbling, when he goes, “Holy shit.”

“Is that like, the only word you know?”

“‘Holy shit’ is technically two words, so, no. It’s not the only word I know. But it’s currently the only two words that make any semblance of sense right now.” He pauses, then goes, “Oh, thank god. Dirk’s still in the basement, and Dave’s still not home. I’ll… have to check the live feed to make sure it’s, uh… I mean, your pants.”

He actually sounds flustered, and it makes you giggle. “I’ll steal one of Dave’s pairs.”

“Problem spotted: what the fuck’re you gonna do with the ones currently on you?”

“Uh, wash them?”

“Right. Sorry. Brain’s fucked right now. Literally, I guess.” Then Hal’s voice takes on a completely different tone, and he goes, “Hey, Terezi. Can we do that again?”

“Holy shit,” you say, grinning. “_Definitely_.”


End file.
